Gnomic: John Fuller's new prose poems make grim reading (photo credit: Paul Stuart)
John Fuller's earlier poems were almost unfailingly delightful. Many of them were songs and verse letters to friends, packed with wit, affection and the evocation of lightweight pleasures. There was often an unsettling note lurking in them — but in the playful music of the poem we got a hint that this should not be taken too seriously, at any rate while we were young.
His new volume of prose poems (an odd name), while still full of intellectual energy, is grimmer and harder to read. Fuller's prevailing themes, at the age of 77, have become far more serious. They are the difficulty of understanding with any real clarity what is happening to us in our lives, and the near-impossibility of controlling any of it. Many of the pieces are allegories of human life as Fuller now sees it. The title piece, "The Dice Cup", is one of these. It describes a game of dice played with a bone cup. It suggests that the cup is like our skull, and that the few dots on the dice, themselves made of bone, are very suitable symbols for the scanty and inadequate information that we have in our heads when we try to make any sense of the world. As for the gambling game itself, playing it represents our attempt to "control or at least predict" the circumstances that we find ourselves in. "Fine chance!" is the poet's sarcastic comment on that. This is the merest summary of the allegory, which gets taken further and further, and concludes coolly that "of course, we ourselves will in the end be nothing but bone, and not that for always". This gloomy piece is elegantly done, with a certain touch of macabre wit. But it is not a poem that instantly dazzles one with its beauty and insight.
Another section of the book is called "A Terrace in Corsica". This was exactly the sort of setting of some of Fuller's earlier pleasure-poems. He seemed to be a great and happy traveller. In one poem here, a lily on the terrace speaks to him and gives a brilliant description of her orange face, which "hangs luminously in flags and tissue like something half-unwrapped, or yesterday's celebration". That word-picture could have come from one of his books 40 years ago. But then the lily tells him that her face is not visible today, and warns him that "perhaps it is always yesterday, and you should have come then. Or tomorrrow." The poem slips away into gnomic lily-talk. It made me feel like Robert Browning where he writes, "Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now! Off again!"
A poet casts a prosaic die